Christmas has come and gone, and in spite of our gloomy expectations we have had the jolliest time. You would hardly believe it! Oh,—there were plenty of roses!

The first nice thing that happened was on Tuesday morning when mother received a letter from Miss Brown, stating that she had been asked to stay over the holidays with her niece in Flatbush.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” carolled Ernie:

She did not mean anything the least irreligious. It was simply a spontaneous outburst of joy; and at the same instant a mad enthusiasm seemed to seize hold of us all.

“Let’s finish the breakfast dishes at once, Elizabeth,” said mother. “I have some sewing upstairs that I must attend to.”

“And there is something I must finish, too,” answered I. “How considerate of Miss Brown’s niece! Just think, our Christmas dinner alone!”

“Have you decided—how you are going—to spend my lucky penny?” shouted Hazard from the hall above. “You understand, Ernie,—I want it to go—as far as possible!”

“Yes! yes!” answered Ernie. “I’ve a grand idea! Don’t you worry, Hazard. Geof and I are going shopping this afternoon after school.”

And so they did, and so did mother, and so did I! It was really amusing. Nobody could be prevailed upon to tell what had been bought, except that “it was very cheap, dear. Don’t worry!”

Then in the evening Ernie and I made old-fashioned molasses candy, because it is less expensive than fudge and we had determined to pull it and twist it into original shapes, something individual for each one. For Robin we made a little yellow bird (I must confess it looked more like a chicken than anything else), a boy with a big hat and a crooked nose, and a pig with a curly tail. Hazard’s candy we put peanuts in, and did not pull, because he prefers it that way. Mother’s we tied into a variety of charming bow-knots; and Ernie made me a mandolin, and Geof a hockey stick, while I made Ernie a Santa Claus. He was a little wobbly in the legs, to be sure, but any one could recognise him from his pack.

In the middle of it all Mrs. Burroughs came over, full of her own plans.

“I do hope you won’t say no, Mrs. Graham,” she pleaded. “I haven’t had any Christmas fun—for ages!”

It seems that she wished to give a party for Robin. “I will have it Wednesday night, Christmas eve,” she explained. “So it needn’t interfere with your family celebration in the least. May I, please?”

“Why, it would be lovely,” we all answered with enthusiasm. And Mrs. Burroughs flushed a beautiful rose colour, and for a moment the quick tears stood in her eyes.

“Thank you so much,” she answered. “Then that’s settled. You see Francis and I used to have such good times, and just the last year I got him a magic lantern. It is really a very nice one, and there are some charming slides. ‘The Night before Christmas’ is the set Francis liked best,—especially the pictures of the reindeer. I thought we might give it for Robin, and perhaps you will lend your back parlour for the occasion. We can begin early,—say half-past seven. I wonder if Hazard will consent to act as manager?”

“You’d better choose Geof,” warned Ernie. “He’s cleverer at that sort of thing, and I’m sure he’d like to come.”

So the matter was arranged. The following afternoon,—to the intense excitement of Robin,—Mrs. Burroughs, Geof, and Ernie shut themselves up in the back parlour, from whence began to issue the sound of much laughter and hammering.

Despite his impatience, it was not till quarter to seven o’clock that the doors were finally thrown open and Robin was carried down. How charming everything looked, to be sure! Long loops of ground-pine were festooned about the chandelier, and along the picture-rail. A great artificial Christmas bell hung in the doorway, from either side of which dropped gay streamers of baby-ribbon strung with sleigh-bells, that jingled and sang in the merriest fashion at the touch of a passing hand. In the window were holly wreaths, and back of the Madonna over the chimney-piece were two more great branches of holly with the biggest, brightest berries I have ever seen. A red Christmas candle burned upon the piano. The old lounge, covered with a tiger rug lent by Mrs. Burroughs, had been pushed out into the middle of the room, and a series of “orchestra chairs” arranged about it. Between the folding doors the magic sheet was hung, and behind it could be heard the voices of Geof and Ernie in animated discussion.

Presently the guests began to arrive,—Georgie and his nurse, Robin’s “chum” John, who had been looked up especially for the occasion, because, as Bobs persuasively explained, “it would be pretty odd for a boy to give a party and not ask his own chum”; old Mrs. Endicott, who is Mrs. Burroughs’ aunt, and Rosebud, very gay and debonair in a becoming red ribbon bow.

“The audience is ready,” sang out Robin, from his lair on the tiger skin. “What makes the party so late, I’d like to know?”

“It isn’t late at all,” returned Mrs. Burroughs, from behind the curtain. “The idea! we said half-past seven o’clock, and it is only quarter after. You are early! That’s all!”

However, in another moment Geof appeared to turn down the lights. With a deep, expectant sigh from Robin, Georgie, and John, the party had begun!

The pictures were certainly charming, and Geoffrey managed the slides without a hitch.

First came “The Night before Christmas”:—Santa Claus starting out on his journey with a sleigh overladen with toys. How life-like the reindeer looked, to be sure! and how impatient to be off!

“They can go, I bet you!” shouted Georgie, “once Santa takes up the lines.”

Next followed a scene among the roof-tops; a great round moon overhead, and Santa Claus already disappearing down the chimney.

“This can be your house, John,” says Robin, magnanimously. “Perhaps he’s going to leave that tin trumpet. I don’t want it.”

“Neither do I,” answered John. “I’d rather have a real automobile.”

But already the scene had shifted. Santa Claus, upon the hearthrug, was filling stockings with a roguish glance at three little heads buried among the pillows of a great four-poster bed.

How the children laughed and applauded! Next came the stories of Cinderella, Puss in Boots, and Hop o’ My Thumb, which were an almost equal success; and, finally, when the last slide was exhausted, the lights were turned up, and what Georgie called “the real party” was brought in. This consisted of ice cream, served in pretty coloured forms of fruits and flowers; lady-fingers; dishes of sugar-plums, and a mild brew of cocoa.

The favours were mechanical toys, such as are sold in quantities along Broadway and Twenty-third Street at this season of the year,—something amusing or interesting for each one. Georgie had a monkey that ran up a stick; Robin a small toy balloon in the shape of a pink rubber pig, that squealed shrilly when blown up; Geof a rooster that could flap its wings and crow; and Ernie a little old woman with a rake and a watering-pot, who, after being properly wound up, would start conscientiously forth to sprinkle her garden, only to trip at the first obstruction she met, and lie kicking her heels frantically on the carpet.

“Oh, it has been a love-ly party,” sighed Robin, at last, his arms tight about Mrs. Burroughs’ neck, as he kissed her a sticky but affectionate good-bye. “Thank you so much, and Merry Christmas, dear!”

“God bless you, darling boy,” returned Mrs. Burroughs. “Promise you won’t lie awake thinking about it, and to-morrow will come all the sooner.”

So, with season’s greetings, and many protestations of having passed a most delightful evening, the guests departed. Robin was hustled upstairs to bed by mother; while Ernie, Haze, and I proceeded to collect the various Christmas gifts that had arrived, preparatory to filling his stocking.

Really, there was so much! A delightful swan’s-down comforter for his cot from Aunt Adelaide; a set of building-blocks from Georgie; the Jungle Books from Mrs. Burroughs; and a regiment of tin-soldiers, with artillery and mounted officers, that had come in the morning’s mail from Miss Brown. Next we brought out the home things;—a gay little dressing-gown that mother had made from her old cashmere shawl with cherry-colour collar and cuffs; a pair of crocheted slippers to match, this was my gift; a little white flannel rabbit, with pink beads for eyes and a fluff of a tail, from Ernie, and a really amazing menagerie, of some hundred and fifty animals, elephants, giraffes, lions, tigers, leopards, monkeys, and all. She had traced the pictures from old magazines, transferred the outline to heavy paper, cut the figures out and coloured them.

“They’re wonderful, Ernie!” I cried.

“But where’s my present?” asked Haze, looking worried.

“It’s coming,” says Ernie. And, running from the room, she returned a moment later with—what do you think? Nothing more nor less than a clam! a live clam, if you please, neatly housed in the little glass globe that Hazard used to keep gold-fish in some years ago.

“Holy smoke!” muttered Haze, not knowing whether to be most disappointed or amused. “Wh-what’s it for?”

“A pet, to be sure!” answered Ernie, nonchalantly. “I bought it of Murray, the fishman, and, though he said he did not usually sell clams by the piece, when he did they cost just one cent. So we’ll call it Abraham Lincoln in memory of your lucky penny. Bobsie will love it! It can snap at a straw if you try to tickle it, and hang on like a bulldog. You’ll see.”

“But how did you ever come to think of it, Ernie?” I asked.

“Clam-fritters,” answered Ernie, succinctly. “We had ’em the other morning for breakfast, and then, too, we’ve been studying bivalves in school this term, and they are really very interesting animals.”

So, the stocking was filled, with an orange, an apple, the molasses-candy figures,—chicken, pig, boy,—some sugar-plums left over from the party, my slippers, and the white flannel rabbit, whose pink silesia ears poked alluringly out at the top. Mother and I stole on tiptoe into the nursery to play the part of Santa Claus, by light of a shaded candle. We dropped the down quilt softly over Robin’s crib, and stood for a moment watching our baby, who, quite worn out with the evening’s excitement, slept feverishly, a bright flush upon his cheek, his little breast rising and falling in answer to his hurried breathing.

“I hope it has not been too much for him,” said mother, in a low voice.

“I hope not,” I answered.

But we might have spared ourselves anxiety. Robin slept quietly through the night, and till half-past seven Christmas morning, when he woke as fresh and blithe as a lark. And how delighted he was with all his things! He positively shouted with joy over the paper menagerie and tin soldiers; and insisted upon being put into his new dressing-gown on the spot, with many sarcastic side remarks about “boys what said there was no Santa Claus!”

But the present that pleased him most of all was—Abraham Lincoln!

“It is what I wanted more than anything in the world!” he remarked, with a fondly doting glance at his new pet. “Only I didn’t think of it in time to say so. Now when Rosebud runs away and leaves me, I need never be lonely again!”

Though the rest of us did not fare as royally as Robin, there was some trifle for each one;—Ernie had seen to that.

“I had just fifty cents to spend on the entire family,” she explained. “Don’t you think I managed well?”

There were also a number of pretty gifts from Mrs. Burroughs, the score of Robin Hood from Meta for me, and a really portentous jackknife with three blades and a corkscrew attachment from Geof for Ernie.

“How jolly!” she cried, hopping about on her little pink toes. “I need never borrow Hazard’s again, and I can pull all Robin’s cod-liver oil corks! Hurr-oo!”

After breakfast came church. Haze volunteered to stay with Bobsie, so that mother, Ernie, and I might go. But just as we were leaving the house whom should we meet on the front stoop but Geoffrey, bearing his much-heralded present for Robin,—a really handsome nickel-plated cage in which crouched a pair of tiny white mice!

“The darlings!” chortled Ernie. “I can’t leave ’em! I can’t!”

So she deserted mother and me, and followed Geof to the nursery. And when we returned from service some two hours later, the three enthusiasts were still gloating.

“Look, Elizabeth!” exulted Ernie. “We’ve let ’em out of the cage, and they are quite tame!”

“I’m going to call them Open, O Buds, O Open, and Sweet Fern,” remarked Robin, in sentimental accents. “Nobody helped me think of those names. Aren’t they pretty?”

“See, Aunt Peggy,” says Geof. “There’s a wheel to the cage, so they can get plenty of exercise, and the man I bought ’em of told me we might expect a family about every three weeks.”

“Dear me!” murmured mother, in some dismay. “I wish he hadn’t been quite so lavish in his promises. But I must go down to attend to dinner now. Be careful of Rosebud, Robin. She would like your mice only too well, I fear.”

The afternoon passed quietly, Ernie and Haze carrying our usual Christmas package to the little Kerns, whose mother used to wash for us, once on a time. She is an invalid, now, and the family are even poorer than we, poor lambs!

“So whatever we may have to go without ourselves, we can’t afford to economise on Luella, Joseph, and Angeline,” remarked Ernie some two or three weeks ago. And immediately she and Robin set to work patching up their dilapidated toys and picture books, generously casting aside those that were “too shabby,” clipping, stitching, and gluing, till “the Kern shelf” in the nursery cupboard presented a very attractive appearance, indeed.

Mother added oranges, a jar of beef extract, and half a pound of tea.

“I do hope they will like their things as well as we like ours,” sighed Robin responsibly, stuffing his molasses candy pig and the last of the sugar plums into Haze’s overcoat pocket. “Do you think they will, mother dear?”

“I don’t see why they should not,” mother answered, and then she took Robin in her lap in the big rocker, and read him the Christmas story from St. Matthew, explaining about the Wise Men and the gifts they brought. After which she lowered the nursery shades, and left him to take a nap, “because,” she explained, “I want our boy to be fresh and rested for this evening.”

“What?” I asked. “More surprises?”

“Just a little one,” returned mother, modestly.

Yet it turned out to be the most charming of all. You would never guess! A tiny toy Christmas tree, not more than a foot and a half high, lighted with twelve little candles, and gay with popcorn wreaths, gilded walnuts, and silver tinsel.

“I found it on the Bowery,” explained mother, half guiltily,—“in a small German shop. It was very cheap, Elizabeth. So don’t worry!”

How Robin’s eyes shone as he was carried into the back parlour, where the little tree stood sparkling on a table drawn up beside the couch!

“There are presents on it, too,” says mother.

And so there were! For from every branch and twig dangled a series of coloured pasteboard discs, lettered in white ink, and reading thus:—

“A pearl ring, with much love to Elizabeth from mother.”

“A pair of skates, for dear Ernie from mother.”

“Lockhart’s Life of Scott,—three volumes, good type,—for Hazard from mother.”

“A canary in a gold cage, for Robin from mother.”

“An ermine muff and stole, for Elizabeth from mother,” etc., etc.

All the dear, beautiful, dream gifts that mother would have given to her children, if only she had been able!

The candles on the little tree began to blink and twinkle like living stars, the way lights will when looked at through happy tears. Even Robin understood.

“I love my autoharp better than anything in the world,” he declared, dangling the small pasteboard disc by its red cord. “Even, even, better than Abraham Lincoln!” he cried. “Thank you so much, mother dear!”

“And that Lockhart’s Life!” echoed Haze, as enthusiastically as if he expected to sit down to the first volume next minute. “U-m-m!!”

“I hope I have not only succeeded in making you dissatisfied, my poor lambs,” said mother, a little anxiously.

“Dissatisfied!” cried Ernie, striking out in fine skating style for the piano. “Do you think it’s a brood of ungrateful brutes you’ve hatched into the wor-rld, mum? Let’s have some carols now. I want to shout!”

And so we did! Hazard quite off the tune, as usual, Robin piping away in his gay little treble, Ernie and I trying our best to keep the others up to time.

It was all very jolly; and, as I said when I first sat down to write, we simply could not have passed a lovelier Christmas, no matter how much money we might have spent,—now do you think we could?